At the hospital, doctors had to cut his wedding band off before treating the injuries.
I still remembered sitting beside him while he stared at the damaged ring in a metal tray.
“Damn it,” he’d whispered.
He wasn’t angry about his hand.
He was upset about the ring.
We had it repaired months later.
But his finger never healed properly.
The knuckle remained
enlarged and slightly crooked.
Whenever he tried wearing the ring, it pinched painfully.
Eventually, he placed it inside a small wooden box his grandfather had made.
The box had a pine tree carved into its lid.
He kept it in his dresser.
And there it had remained for twelve years.
At least, that’s what I believed.
Now my husband had returned from a fishing trip with a perfect ring-shaped tan line.
And he wanted me to believe a fishing rod had caused it.
Every August, Mark traveled to Loon Lake with three longtime friends.
Dave had worked construction with him since they were young.
Ray, Dave’s brother-in-law, was loud, talkative, and incapable of keeping a funny story to himself.
Tommy was quieter.
He’d been Mark’s best man at our wedding.
For nine years, their annual trip followed almost exactly the same routine.
They drove three hours north.
Stayed in a
cheap motel called the Pine Rest.
Fished all weekend.
Complained about the mosquitoes.
And returned Sunday evening carrying a cooler full of fish.
Mark always brought me a jar of wild blueberry jam from a roadside farm stand.
I’d once mentioned that I loved it.
He remembered every year.
But this time, he came home without any jam.
He arrived Sunday evening at seven-thirty.
Normally, he’d wrap both arms around me, kiss me properly, and immediately begin describing everything Ray had done wrong.
Instead, he gave me a quick, awkward hug.
Then he carried his duffel bag upstairs.
“How was the trip?” I called.
“Fine. I’m exhausted. Going to shower.”
“Did Ray fall out of the boat again?”
There was a pause.
“Twice.”
Usually, Mark would have laughed so hard while describing it that he’d struggle to finish the story.
This time, he sounded distracted.
At dinner, he barely spoke.
When I asked about Tommy’s injured knee, he gave a short answer.
When I asked whether they’d visited their favorite diner, he first said yes.
